


It's A Song About Love

by flowerfan



Series: Season 7 future!fics [15]
Category: Glee
Genre: Fluff, Folk Music, M/M, NYC, Sexytimes, future!fic, married!klaine, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 12:25:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6284494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerfan/pseuds/flowerfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Folk songs, drinking, and sexytimes.  With a bonus guest (just for the folk songs and drinking – sorry).</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Part of a series of canon compliant “Season 7” fics that look at events in the early married life of Kurt and Blaine.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Song About Love

_April, 2015_

It’s Friday night, and Kurt thinks he has never been happier to climb up the stairs to their tiny apartment. As usual, he’s looking forward to seeing Blaine, and he knows he’s home not only because he said he would be, but because the sound of his guitar reaches Kurt’s ears before he even gets the door open. 

Kurt can’t help smiling at the music coming from their bedroom. Blaine is taking a seminar about the use of music in political movements, and has been playing folk tunes from the sixties and seventies for a week straight. He toes off his shoes and hangs up his coat, ready to greet his husband, when someone starts singing. And unless Blaine’s Spanish accent has improved dramatically overnight, it’s definitely not him.

_Gracias a la vida, que me ha dado tanto._   
_Me dio dos luceros, que cuando los abro,_   
_Perfecto distingo lo negro del blanco_   
_Y en el alto cielo su fondo estrellado_   
_Y en las multitudes el hombre que yo amo._

Kurt pauses at the door to their bedroom, taking in the sight of Santana sitting cross-legged on their bed wearing a barely there black slip of a top and skintight jeans. It’s hardly her usual fashion statement. Blaine is sitting next to her, playing while she sings. They both have their eyes on Blaine’s ipad, propped on the bed in front of them, and don’t immediately notice Kurt come in. 

Kurt doesn’t want to interrupt them, especially not when Santana is singing such a moving song. Blaine had played it for him the night before, and showed him a rough translation. “Thanks to life, which has given me so much. It gave me two stars, which when I open them, perfectly distinguish black from white. And in the tall sky its starry backdrop, and within the multitudes, the man I love.”

She is almost to the end, singing about how life gives you laughter and tears, happiness and pain, when she looks up and sees Kurt. Miraculously, she doesn’t stop singing, just tilts her head and directs the last few lines to him.

_Asi yo distingo dicha de quebranto,_   
_Los dos materiales que forman mi canto,_   
_Y el canto de ustedes que es mi mismo canto,_   
_Y el canto de todos que es mi propio canto._

Kurt loves this last part of the song – “With them I distinguish happiness from pain. The two elements that make up my song, and your song, as well, which is the same song. And everyone’s song, which is my very song.” 

Blaine pulls Santana into a hug when she finishes singing, and she practically buries her face in his shoulder. Something isn’t quite right. 

Kurt sits down on the bed next to her. “That was beautiful, Santana.” 

She turns her head to him and wipes her eyes. “Thanks.” Okay, Kurt thinks, not even a hint of snark. Something is definitely wrong.

He glances up at Blaine, who is trying to convey what is clearly _a very important message_ to Kurt with his patented heart eyes, but Kurt can’t figure it out. Oh, for the ability to read each other’s minds. 

“Santana showed up when I was trying to find a song to play in class next week, and it turns out she knows this one.”

“’Course I know it,” Santana mumbles. She sits up and slides off the bed. She takes a deep breath, shakes out her shoulders, and just like that, the Santana they know and love returns. “So, are we going out or what? I didn’t come here to sit around singing sappy songs.”

“Sure she didn’t,” Kurt says as Santana stalks off into the bathroom. He turns to Blaine, who is putting his guitar away. “What was that all about?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m guessing she had a fight with Brittany.”

“You couldn’t have picked a more upbeat song?”

“She wasn’t in the mood for ‘I’m Changing My Name to Chrysler,’ what can I say.”

“Pete Seeger not her thing?”

“I’m thinking no.”

Blaine holds out his hand to Kurt, who gets off the bed and lets Blaine wrap his arms around him. Kurt sighs in contentment; it feels so good, every time, to be next to Blaine. Kurt puts a hand to Blaine’s cheek and presses their lips together in a firm kiss. “Hello, husband.”

Blaine’s smile crinkles his eyes. “Hello, husband.”

“So, we’re hanging out with Santana tonight?”

“I think we are.”

******  
Several hours later, after dinner at a sticky dive bar where Santana orders French fries and tequila shots, they arrive at their evening’s destination. Blaine had refused to tell them where they were going, only that music would be involved. Kurt figures this means loud beats and flashing lights and a chance to sway his hips and watch Blaine sway his… but he is wrong.

“Blaine? I don’t think Santana’s going to go for this,” he whispers intently into Blaine’s ear as they go inside.

“Shush. It’s extra credit for my class. And they serve alcohol, she’ll be fine.”

Blaine ushers them into the coffeehouse-like setting, practically shoving Santana into a booth in the back and sitting on the end to cut off her exit.

“Curly? What the hell is this place?”

Kurt glances at Blaine, as if he hadn’t been looking at him for the whole night. His hair is heavy with gel, as usual, hardly a curl in sight. “Why is she calling you Curly?”

Blaine shrugs. “Trying to give me PTSD?”

“I am not wasting my time with this-this-” Santana continues to protest, but apparently doesn’t quite have the words.

“It’s going to be fun,” Blaine assures her. “And you’re not wasting your time, you’re with us.”

This doesn’t seem to have much effect on her.

“The headliner is being hailed as a young Joan Baez,” Kurt says, reading from the program.

Santana’s eyes widen. She has a secret love for Joan Baez – no longer so secret, ever since a competitive game of song jeopardy last month revealed her epic knowledge of the singer’s contributions to the folk genre. 

Indeed, Santana settles down soon enough, aided by the steady stream of alcoholic beverages she orders, most of which consist of more tequila shots. Blaine and Kurt have a few drinks as well, and Kurt’s only regret is that Blaine is sitting on the opposite side of the table from him. He’s so cuddly when he’s tipsy. Although, honestly, he’s always cuddly. Maybe it’s Kurt’s that’s more cuddly when he’s tipsy…

Kurt’s train of thought is interrupted when the opening act finishes up and Blaine slides out of the booth. “I think some of the others from my class are here,” he says, wobbling slightly. “I’m gonna go say hi.”

Kurt takes this opportunity to move over next to Santana, although he realizes as he does this that he still won’t be sitting next to Blaine when he gets back. Better not have another margarita, he thinks; his ability to plan these things is usually better than this.

Santana has her head down on the table, and blinks open an eye when Kurt pokes her with the straw from his mojito.

“Cut it. I’m just resting until the music starts again.”

“Want to tell me what’s wrong?”

Santana responds by turning her head away from him, but apparently the view is too boring with only the wall in front of her, and she flips her head right back. “No.”

“Sometimes it helps to talk about things.”

“Sometimes it helps to drink tequila.”

“Santana…”

“Short stuff already tried. I’m not sharing tonight. Just give it up.”

It’s true, it is hard to imagine Kurt succeeding where Blaine’s puppy dog eyes had failed, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Is it about Brittany?”

Santana sits up and her eyes flash at him. “What did I say? Did you even hear me?” She’s fruitlessly trying to push Kurt out of the way so she can get out of the seat when Blaine returns to the table.

“Santana? What’s wrong? I brought you this.” He hands her a bright pink drink in a martini glass that looks like it has whipped cream on top of it. She pauses in her struggle, obviously torn between the desire to flee and her interest in continuing to drown her sorrows in alcohol.

Choosing to drown, she slumps back against the seat and takes a long sip of the drink.

Blaine squeezes himself on the bench next to Kurt – there’s hardly room for the three of them there, but now at least Kurt is getting his wish to have his husband tantalizingly close – and whispers a little too loudly in Kurt’s ear. “Don’t worry, there’s hardly any rum in that.”

“That’s because it’s gin,” Santana gloats. Okay, so maybe all three of them are a little logic impaired at this point.

The headliner finally begins, and she is lovely to listen to. Maybe not exactly the next Joan Baez, but sexy enough to hold Santana’s attention, and earnest enough to please Blaine. She actually sings a few old standards, including “Where Have All The Flowers Gone” (which makes Blaine cry), then some original pieces interspersed with other covers. She’s clearly finishing up when she starts to sing another Baez favorite.

“If you were a carpenter, and I were a lady, would you marry me anyway, would you have my baby?”

“That’s the problem, you know, that’s exactly the problem,” Santana sobs out.

Kurt and Blaine both turn to Santana. It’s not as if they forgot she was there, exactly, but they had been rather wrapped up in each other. Literally. Blaine’s thigh is draped across Kurt’s lap and Kurt’s arms are slung tightly around his shoulders, the better to access each other’s lips. Kurt has undone Blaine’s bowtie and the first few buttons of his shirt, and has sucked a rather impressive hickey over his collarbone. It’s dark, and they are in the back of the bar, but they might have gone just a bit overboard. Ooops.

“Um, what’s the problem, Santana?” Blaine is the first to shake himself out of their haze, and blinks as he tries to focus on the situation at hand.

“I’m not a lady. I’m not a lady, and she married me anyway. And now she’s talking about – she’s talking about-” Santana gives up and throws her arms around Kurt, sniffling hard into his shoulder. Kurt and Blaine disentangle themselves and Kurt pets her hair, hoping that she doesn’t actually have any razors in it. Because it would be a shame to bleed all over everyone.

Blaine gets up from the table and Kurt is struck with a sudden panic – don’t leave me here with her – but he’s back soon, with three plastic glasses of water. They drink them in silence, as the crowd applauds the singer and begs her to return for an encore. Santana finally stutters out a further explanation for her distress -- Brittany told her that she wants children, but Santana doesn’t, or at least, she never thought she did, but she’s willing to consider it with Britt, she’d do anything for her. But all Brittany heard was “no,” and she got upset, and then Santana got upset, “and then I said all kinds of horrible things because I’m a horrible person and I should have a horrible life and I don’t deserve her….” Santana’s voice wails higher than Kurt has ever heard it, and he feels a moment of true kinship with her.

They talk her down for a few minutes, and she nods in all the right places, contrite and sorrowful.

“Santana, do you want to come back to our place and spend the night?” Blaine asks, ever the considerate friend.

_Please say no please say no please say no_ Kurt chants inside his head. Miraculously, it works.

“No – why would I do that? Brittany’s not at your place,” Santana says, as if she’s addressing a child. She has clearly cried herself out and circled right back around to sharp and sassy. “I have to go home. Now.” 

They gather their things and put Santana in a cab, and, finally, they’re alone. Well, as alone as they can be on an East Village street at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. Which is to say, not really alone. But at least they don’t have anyone but each other to please, and, if Kurt has his way, a considerable amount of mutual pleasuring is going to be happening quite soon.

*****  
They’re still happily tipsy by the time they get home, thankfully not having overindulged to the point where it is going to affect their ability to really enjoy each other. This is made perfectly clear to Kurt when Blaine crowds him against the back of their apartment door as soon as it closes, his breath hot against his neck as he immediately goes to town on that spot that drives Kurt insane.

“Mm, god, Kurt, you are so hot, you look so good tonight,” Blaine murmurs, nipping at Kurt’s earlobe with his teeth.

“I always look good,” Kurt reflexively responds, tilting his head to let Blaine continue.

“True, it’s true,” Blaine agrees, moving his hands away from Kurt’s face and running them up and down his sides. Blaine likes to tug Kurt’s shirt out of his pants and then plant his hands on Kurt’s hips, sliding his fingers down under his waistband and teasing until Kurt strips his pants off himself. It’s a good strategy, frankly, given how difficult it can be to peel off Kurt’s tighter fashions.

But tonight it seems Blaine doesn’t have the patience for such things, and begins to fumble with the buttons on Kurt’s jeans almost immediately. Kurt swats his hand away and then they are both taking their own clothes off as fast as they can, Blaine steadying himself with a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. Kurt finishes first and tugs Blaine’s shirt the rest of the way off his body, then pulls Blaine close. They’re down to their briefs and the feel of Blaine’s heated skin against his own is intoxicating.

“Bedroom,” Kurt commands, and then they’re through the door and on the bed, Kurt scooting back against the pillows and Blaine crawling up after him. Blaine has his hands in Kurt’s hair, kissing him everywhere, and Kurt just melts into it, lying back with his husband’s weight holding him down. It feels spectacular. 

Kurt slides his hands down to Blaine’s ass, cupping and squeezing, and Blaine lets out a low moan. His hips are starting to press more urgently against Kurt’s, and Kurt tugs at the waistband of Blaine’s briefs. He doesn’t take long to get the picture, and soon they are both gloriously naked, twined around each other as they jostle for position, wanting to feel every inch of each other’s bodies.

“What do you want, honey?” Kurt asks, unlocking his lips from Blaine’s to ask the question. His husband’s eyes are wide with lust, and for a moment Kurt wonders if he’ll even answer at all. 

“Mmm, don’t know,” Blaine breathes out, sliding a hand up and down Kurt’s chest, and wrapping a leg more tight around his waist. “Just want you.”

“Fast now, slower later?” Kurt suggests.

Blaine’s body reacts before he speaks, as he thrusts himself firmly against Kurt, an arm reaching around to pull him even more tightly against him. “Yes.”

Kurt flips over to find the lube in their bedside table drawer, but Blaine doesn’t want to pause, pressing himself up against Kurt, his hard cock insistent against Kurt’s ass. Then Blaine’s hand is on him, and the pressure is perfect as he strokes up and down, playing with the head and then releasing, knowing exactly how to touch him to work him into a frenzy. Somehow Kurt adds a squirt of lube to the mix, and then lets himself enjoy it, Blaine firmly working him in front and thrusting behind.

He reaches up and around to hold Blaine around the back of his neck, and twists to kiss wherever he can reach. Blaine is babbling praise and encouragement and nonsense and Kurt can tell that it’s not going to take much longer for either of them. He feels Blaine start to stutter behind him, his hand almost losing its rhythm on his cock, but then Kurt is there, stars exploding behind his eyes, and he loses himself in the moment. Blaine comes not long after, hot and wet on Kurt’s ass, and they lie there, slowly catching their breath as Blaine’s fingers draw circles on Kurt’s thigh.

When he can breathe again Kurt turns over, loving the way Blaine’s face lights up when he does, even sex stupid and sleepy as he is. 

“That was awesome,” Blaine says, pressing a lazy kiss to Kurt’s lips.

“It was,” Kurt agrees. 

“Sorry about the mess.”

Kurt is just tipsy enough not to care as much as he usually might. “We’ll shower in a minute. When I can feel my legs again.”

“Mmm.” Blaine wipes his hand on the sheet, then wraps his arm around Kurt, pulling him close. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“You think Santana and Britt are okay?”

Kurt huffs out a laugh, and Blaine pulls back to look at him. “What?”

“How on earth did your mind go to Santana right now? What happened to round two?”

Blaine grins. “There’s plenty of time for round two. It isn’t my fault that I’m actually concerned about our friends, is it?”

“Santana and Britt will be fine. Just like they were last month, when Santana got worried about whether Britt would still love her if she never went to college, and the month before when she was freaking out about not getting that commercial.”

“Funny that Santana’s insecurities have come out in full force now that they’re married.”

Kurt pauses and thinks about this. “In a weird way, I think she feels safe now. She knows how much Britt loves her, and that they’re committed to each other, for real. So it’s okay to think about this stuff. She knows that no matter how painful it might be, they’ll work it all out.”

Blaine pushes himself up on an elbow, and gives Kurt a pointed look. “You’re not just talking about Santana and Britt, are you?”

Kurt reaches out to touch Blaine, push a wayward piece of hair away from his face. “I feel safe with you. I always have. You know that.” He slides closer, buries his face in Blaine’s shoulder. 

“I know,” Blaine says softly. “But do you feel different now? Now that we’re married?”

Kurt shrugs a little, still hiding his face. He hadn’t meant to get so serious, not right now, not when he’s so loose and unguarded. “Yeah. I think I do.” 

“I know I do,” Blaine says matter of factly, shuffling to pull Kurt more comfortably on to his chest, and stroking a hand over his shoulderblade. “I know you meant it – mean it – when you say you want to be married to me.” Blaine finds Kurt’s hand, curled up on his chest, and plays with the wedding ring on his finger. “And it does make a difference to me. It should. I know you’re not going to change your mind, not over something we can fix. And you know I won’t, either.”

Kurt nods into Blaine’s neck, then sits up a little, finding his eyes, and repeats his thought out loud. “I won’t change my mind. I definitely won’t.” Blaine’s expression as Kurt speaks is so tender, with just a hint of nervousness behind it. He’s thinking about their last break-up, Kurt can tell, and all the stupid, pointless disagreements that led up to it. 

“So now I guess it’s safe to tell you how I really feel about some things,” Kurt says, his voice light.

Blaine looks confused, and now even more nervous. “Of course.” 

Kurt raises an eyebrow, then looks directly at Blaine. “Like your eyes. They’re so distracting, it’s really a problem for me.”

Blaine relaxes and grins at him, getting the picture. “I’m sorry. Should I close them?” He does.

Kurt shakes his head. “Won’t help. Then I have to look at those ridiculously long lashes.” Kurt places a kiss on each of Blaine’s fluttering eyelids, and then begins to trail kisses down Blaine’s body, commenting as he goes along. 

“Your arms are difficult, too. So broad, you can’t even hide them in your polo shirts. And this, this right here” he blows a raspberry in the vicinity of Blaine’s hipbone, and spans his hands across his narrow waist. “Very challenging.” Then Kurt slides his hands around to take a firm hold of Blaine’s ass, and smiles up at him. “But this is the worst. I never know how to deal with this.”

Blaine giggles and squirms, then pulls Kurt back up to him for a kiss. “I have some ideas.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“Round two?”

“Round two.”

It’s a delicious end to an evening that turned out to be not exactly what Kurt had expected for a random Friday night. But like so many things with Blaine, it’s so much better than Kurt could have ever imagined.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Gracias a la Vida_ is a song composed and first performed by Chilean musician Violeta Parra, one of the artists who set the basis for the movement known as Nueva Canción. It’s also been sung by Joan Baez, Mercedes Sosa, and many others, although I learned it when I became obsessed with Holly Near years ago (her recording of it is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Blv5ndV-Aeg ). Listen to it, it’s beautiful.
> 
> The title (“It’s A Song About Love”) is a lyric from _If I Had a Hammer,_ perhaps one of the best known American folk songs.


End file.
